Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
PSYCHO KILLER
JACOB
I glance at Lyla, eyes frosty, unwavering, and something clicks into place. Just seeing her there, fierce and unshaken, grounds me. My pulse slows enough to breathe.
“What are you saying?” My voice is lower now, tighter.
Lyla doesn’t look away from Jessica, but there’s a flash—guilt, frustration, like she wishes she’d figured this out sooner.
“Jessica knows something she shouldn’t about Sheila’s death.” Lyla finally looks at me. “It clicked when I saw her lead you into the woods. She said something to me after the bonfire, right after Pete got kicked out.”
“What did she say?”
Lyla scoffs, humorless. “The usual stalker anthem. ‘Stay away from him. You’ll never understand him like I do.’ But then she said something about Sheila. Something that didn’t sit right.”
She watches it land.
“She said it must’ve been hard for you to see Sheila displayed like that.”
My blood drags, heavy, while a low buzz hums at the edges of my skull.
“There were no details in the paper,” Lyla continues, voice almost a growl. “Nobody outside of law enforcement knew how Sheila was found. Not even most of the task force. You said yourself, you didn’t talk about it.”
Bile rises in my throat. My grip tightens on the machete. I try to tell myself it’s a coincidence. That it doesn’t mean what it sounds like.
Lyla turns back to Jessica, voice going soft. “So, what do you have to say, Jess?” She draws out the S like a hiss.
Jessica scoffs. “I don’t have to answer to you, bitch.”
Lyla laughs, the sound echoing through the clearing like she owns the night. And somehow, in this twisted moment, I fall hard for her.
She tilts her head, voice dripping mock sweetness. “You kind of do, sugarplum, seeing as I have a gun pointed at your head.”
Jessica’s chest rises too fast. Her gaze burns, but beneath the rage she’s unraveling.
A low growl builds in my throat. My voice comes out calm, deadly. “How. Did. You. Know.”
Silence swallows the clearing.
Jessica freezes. Her hands clench. Her eyes dart—Lyla, Leon, Trish, back to me. No exits.
“It was in the news,” she blurts, too fast, too flat.
“Liar.”
She flinches.
I step closer, until there’s barely space between us.
“They never released details about Sheila’s death. Not how she was found. Not what he did to her. That was for investigators. For me.”
Her lips part. Nothing comes out.
“I didn’t tell anyone. Not one damn soul.” My voice drops to a whisper that tastes like blood. “So tell me, how the hell did you know she was displayed?”
She stares, shivering, breath shaking. Begging for something—redemption, rescue, a way out.
I give her none.
Lyla steps beside me, voice sharp as a gunshot. “You know how, Jacob.”
Her words detonate inside me.
My chest caves. The world tilts. My stomach lurches like I’ve been punched.
I don’t want to believe it, but the truth is already screaming in my bones.
The woman I trusted, the one who stayed, who held my hand, who said she understood—she’s the one who took Sheila from me.
“How could you?” My voice scrapes from a hollow place. “How could you?”
Jessica says nothing. No denial. No defense. Just silence.
Trish stumbles back like she’s been hit, hand over her mouth. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
Leon steps forward, grip white-knuckle tight around his hatchet. His jaw is locked so hard I hear the grind. The blade catches lantern light and gleams—cold, ready.
Jessica’s face twists with desperation. Her voice bursts out, unhinged. “Jacob was supposed to fall in love with me!”
The words land like a blow. She says it like it was inevitable.
“From the moment you stepped into that school,” she pants, “I knew we were meant to be.”
She laughs—jagged, bitter, unhinged.
“But no,” she spits. “You had eyes for Sheila.”
My stomach turns.
“Sheila,” she mocks, venom shaking her voice. “The golden girl. Perfect job. Perfect reputation. Worshipped. And me? Nothing.”
Her eyes are wild, unfocused.
“We grew up together. Same classes. Same town. She had better parents, better things, a better life. And still, she took everything. Even you.”
The air feels toxic.
Trish steps forward, voice sharp. “Sheila always stood up for you. She defended you when others dragged your name through the dirt. She believed in you. That’s why I gave you a chance.”
Jessica snarls. “She really did right by me. So selfless, wasn’t she? So perfect.”
Trish’s fists clench. “Having a shitty life doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole—and it sure as hell doesn’t give you permission to murder.”
Jessica flinches but doesn’t argue.
“She didn’t deserve to die because you felt entitled,” Trish spits. “How dare you try to justify what you did to her?”
Jessica shrinks, gaze dropping.
“Why kill her like that?” My voice cuts cold. “Why mutilate her?”
She doesn’t answer.
Lyla steps in. “My guess? Jessica spent months reading up on a certain prolific serial killer. Memorized every article. Studied his patterns. And when the opportunity came, she copied his work.”
She takes a step forward. Jessica doesn’t move.
“Da Vinci’s murders were everywhere. The media turned him into a sick celebrity. Some people got obsessed. Some wanted to be him.”
Lyla’s gaze sharpens. “Stage Sheila’s death to match his. Let the cops do the rest. Then the world ends, everything’s buried. No justice. No follow-up.”
She looks at me. “If I’d had time to dig into the case, I’d have seen through the bullshit.”
It was all there. The signs. The obsession. The lies. And I never saw it.
All this time her killer was beside me. Laughing. Waiting.
I look at Jessica—really look. How did I not see her for what she was?
“So,” Lyla says, casual as dinner plans, “what should we do with her?”
Leon watches Jessica, hatchet in hand. Eyes penetrating.
“What do you say?” I ask him, voice flat.
He signs without hesitation.
I translate. “Leave her to fend for herself.”
Trish folds her arms. “I say we put a bullet in her skull. Quick. Clean.”
“I second that,” Lyla says.
Leon signs again, sharper.
“He says we didn’t let him finish,” I translate.
Leon’s eyes don’t leave Jessica.
“He says we should let her fend for herself,” I pause, grin sharp, “in the middle of a horde of flesh-eaters.”
Lyla whistles. “Brutal. I like it.”
Jessica’s bravado cracks. “Jacob, please. Don’t let them do this. I messed up. But you know me.”
No. I thought I did.
Lyla steps close, her hand cupping my cheek. Warmth in the storm. “It’s up to you. I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner.”
I kiss her forehead, take the gun from her hand. “Don’t be sorry. I should’ve seen her for what she was.”
“Okay,” Trish snaps. “You two can be sorry after we handle the psychopath.” She flips off her safety. “Let’s agree we all missed it and move on.”
Leon signs. “Works for me.”
I turn to Jessica. She’s small now. Frail. All that’s left is the panic of someone who knows the end is near.
“I say we go with Trish’s idea.” I raise the gun. “I don’t have the patience to find a horde. Not tonight.”
Trish grins. “Hell yes.”
My finger curls on the trigger. This is personal. Justice. Revenge. Closure. It’s hard to tell the difference anymore.
Jessica’s eyes widen, childlike. “Jacob, please—”
I aim at her head. All she finds are eyes that see her for what she is. Murderer. Monster.
My finger finds the trigger—
The world explodes.
A roar tears through the night.
Music crashes through the trees, loud, distorted. Headlights slice the dark, swerving through the forest. Behind them—
A swarm.
The dead pour from the shadows. Endless. Groaning with hunger.
Everything slows. The engine. The music. The sound of hell coming to our doorstep.
Lyla’s breath hitches.
Trish curses.
Leon readies his bow.
My grip tightens on the gun.
The music gets louder. Closer to camp.
And then—impact.